


The words I'm singing now mean nothing more than meow

by marginaliana



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Cats, International Fanworks Day 2016, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:30:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6022138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 2004. James appears to have acquired a cat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The words I'm singing now mean nothing more than meow

Jeremy is so grateful to be having a relaxed curry at James' place for the first time in weeks that he doesn't notice anything odd until he sits down on the sofa. When he catches sight of the two gleaming eyes in the darkness underneath the armchair, he nearly drops his beer.

"James," he calls. "Don't you ever clean in here? Now you've got some sort of infestation!" He'd have thought James was far too fastidious to leave food lying around or anything of that sort, but they've certainly been busy, and now that James is single again, it isn't as if he's got someone at home to do the cleaning.

"What?" says James, coming in from the kitchen with two plates of curry. "Jezza, you idiot, it's only Fusker."

"And what's a Fusker when it's at home, then?" Jeremy asks, but before James can answer there is a plaintive 'meow' from the armchair and a moment later a small black and white cat appears. The cat gives Jeremy a distinctly haughty look, then steps forward to daintily take the piece of chicken that James is holding out to it. "Ah," says Jeremy. "When did this happen?"

"Were you paying any attention at all yesterday when Hammond and I were—" James sighs and sits down on the sofa. "No, of course you weren't."

"You were being even more boring than usual," Jeremy says.

He really hadn't been listening, although at the moment he can't quite remember what he'd been thinking about instead. Something important, surely. It had been sunny at the track, not too cold, and James' voice had been a sort of pleasant hum in the back of his head. The actual words had been distinctly of secondary concern.

"Well if you'd engaged your ears for two seconds you'd know that Mindy gave him to me. She said she hated to think of me rattling around here all by myself, and she thought he'd be good for me."

_So now you're rattling around but with fleas,_ Jeremy thinks. _How wonderful. And what about me? I could be rattling as much as anyone._ James' split with Sarah is more recent than Jeremy's divorce, but Jeremy gets the sense that it had been decidedly more amicable. Still, he knows better than most people how depressing 'newly-single' feels, so maybe he shouldn't begrudge James a little sympathy.

He reaches out a hand to pet the top of the cat's head, more out of politeness than any actual interest, and then draws it back abruptly when the thing hisses violently and claws at him. "Oi!" He rubs his thumb over his knuckles, though it hadn't actually broken the skin. "Well, it's living up to its name, at least. Little—" he clears his throat. "Little Fusker."

James chuckles. "He's a good judge of character," he says. Jeremy tries not to pout too much at that. "Anyway," James says, giving the cat a rub and then nudging it away from the table. "Film?"

"Yeah," Jeremy says, blinking. He sits back, taking his plate. "G'wan then." 

The cat disappears under the armchair again, doesn't come out again for the rest of the night. But despite the film and the curry and the company, Jeremy can't quite manage to forget about it.

\-----

"Why on earth did your wife give James that ridiculous hellbeast?" Jeremy says, walking into the portakabin the following Tuesday. It isn't that he's been stewing about it the last couple of days, not at all, but he has to admit he really can't imagine what Mindy had been thinking. James had never really seemed like a cat person; to be honest, he doesn't seem like an _anything_ person, cat or dog or hamster or jellyfish or whatever.

"Good morning to you, too," says Richard from behind a copy of this month's _Jalopnik_. "And I see you've met Fusker."

"Damned thing tried to claw my hand off," Jeremy grumbles. He flips on the kettle and opens the cabinet with the mugs in. Just to be stubborn, he takes James' favorite mug instead of his own. "What's the point of cats anyway?"

Richard snorts. "To be cute, and to love you unconditionally. Think of it like a very small, very bitey sort of donkey."

_Unconditional love. Hah._ "But why James?" Jeremy asks, dropping a tea bag into the mug. "He doesn't need all that! He's fine!" He nearly says, 'He could take his pick of car groupies, I'm sure,' but that's a disconcerting thought, so instead he says, "He's got us, hasn't he?"

Richard puts the magazine down and gives him a look. "You haven't noticed how off he's been since Sarah left? Two middle-aged idiots aren't exactly a substitute for something warm to cuddle up with at night."

Jeremy's brain takes this as its cue to present him with a rather vivid picture of what it would be like to cuddle with James – hairy legs and snoring and all. He pushes the thought aside. "Then he should get an electric blanket." _Like I have,_ he thinks.

Richard opens his mouth to reply, but before he can actually say anything the door opens to admit James himself. By some sort of unspoken consent, both Jeremy and Richard shut up immediately. 

"Morning, chaps," James says, taking off his jacket. Jeremy meets his eyes evenly, but James must see something in his expression because he immediately says, "What?" and checks his fly.

Richard snorts again. "It isn't that, mate. Jezza was just ranting at me about your furry little demon."

James beams. "He's completely useless, but I'm getting rather used to him," he admits. Jeremy finds himself somewhat taken aback by the force of that smile. 

_He never smiles like that at us,_ grumbles a voice in the back of his mind. He tells it to shut up. "I suppose you can get used to anything after a while," he says. "Even syphilis."

"I've got used to you, haven't I? And you're even more useless than the cat," James shoots back, and Richard bursts into laughter. Jeremy makes an exaggerated 'ouch, your barb has struck home' gesture, mainly to hide the fact that it had actually stung a little.

"Shouldn't you two be working or something?" he says. "Rather than making jokes at my expense?"

"Making jokes at your expense _is_ working," James points out, just as the door opens yet again, this time revealing Andy, who breaks into a grin at hearing James' statement.

"And a full time job it is, too," Andy says. James and Richard begin to snigger.

"This is cruel and unusual punishment," Jeremy informs them all. Then he shrugs. "Well, cruel anyway." At this, James laughs so hard he begins to honk, and Jeremy counts it as a win.

\-----

"Dinner at mine on Friday?" Jeremy says, as they're wrapping up after filming in the studio. The sun is beginning to set and the last of the fans have finally trickled out. James is standing at the open door of the hangar, staring out at something in the distance that Jeremy can't make out – the sunset light has turned his hair bright and glimmering, especially where the first bits of grey have begun to appear.

_He's going to look bloody good when he's old,_ Jeremy thinks, and then squashes the idea immediately. Because if he thinks about James getting old, then he has to think about himself, and he knows that only one of them is going to end up looking distinguished. The other one will have to settle for worn-out orangutan.

James turns with an absentminded "Mmm?" He blinks, then says, "Yes, dinner. At mine, though, if you don't mind. I'm trying to get Fusker used to other people."

Jeremy sighs. "You ought to get him used to just who's boss," he says, and then, "Oh, who am I kidding? Between you and him, he's definitely the boss."

"He's just a cat," James says, wrinkling his nose up, but Jeremy notices that he doesn't actually deny it.

"Dinner at yours, then," Jeremy says. "But I reserve the right to bring the food."

"Fine," James says. "Seven?"

"Sure." Jeremy claps him on the back and turns to go. When he reaches the neat row of crew cars lined up against the edge of the hangar, some impulse makes him turn back. James hasn't moved, is still silhouetted against the sunset, staring off into the distance. His shoulders are just faintly slumped, and Jeremy takes a step back towards him without realizing he's going to do it. Maybe Richard's right, and there really is something going on with James.

But the sound of the gravel crunching under his foot is enough to snap him into awareness. This isn't the time or the place. He knows James well enough to guess that if he tries to get him to open up now – when he's tired from filming and sweaty and with bits of of makeup still clinging to his face – all he'll get is an evasive answer. Best leave it until Friday. Better yet, Friday after a couple of beers. That's really the only way to get anything personal out of any man.

\-----

On Friday he picks up fish and chips on the way to James' and, after a moment of consideration, an extra portion of fish for the demon cat. If you can't win 'em over with charm, you can usually win 'em with bribery, Jeremy's often found, and that probably goes for cats as well as reporters.

James opens the door and sniffs at the bag in Jeremy's hand, then shrugs and steps back to let him in. "Thought you might bring something I'd actually object to," he says. 

Jeremy had been tempted, but he'd decided that he'd rather get James' guard down than tweak him, at least tonight. "I am a kind and considerate soul," he says, putting one hand to his chest in an exaggerated pose, "deeply invested in the emotional well being of those around me."

"Mmm," says James, with his eyebrows raised. "So do you want the film about funerals and depressed people in New Jersey, or do you want the one with the zombies?"

"Okay, yes, I want the one with the zombies." He hands James the bag of dinner and shrugs out of his coat. But he only has time to take the first two steps towards the hall closet before a loud hissing begins to emanate from the kitchen doorway. Jeremy takes a step back. "Er..."

"Thought you were going to show him who's boss," James says, and then, "Oh for Christ's sake, Jezza, he isn't a sodding tiger." He stoops down to pick up the cat, then pauses and hands Jeremy back the bag of fish and chips first.

"Could've fooled me. Besides, I like my blood," Jeremy protests, as James stands up again with the cat now perched smugly in his palm. "More specifically, I like it _in me_." 

The cat sniffs at him. Or possibly at the bag of decidedly fishy-smelling dinner, but really it seems far more likely to have been a sniff of disdain.

"Pansy," says James, but Jeremy can hear the smile in his voice. He can't quite tell whether the smile is directed at him or the cat, and after a moment decides he doesn't actually want to know which it is. Instead he just hangs his coat on the doorknob of the hall closet and sidles past James into the kitchen.

They eat dinner on the sofa with _Shaun of the Dead_ on. The cat seems not too fond of the noise; it flees into James' bedroom at the first screams, and good riddance. After the end credits have rolled, the two of them just sit for a while, drinking beer and half-heartedly arguing about whether zombies or vampires make for a better spectacle. James is leaning back against the sofa cushions, his hair sticking up a little at the back of his head from static electricity. Jeremy goes silent for a bit just watching it, feeling an absurd fondness for this ridiculous man who happens to be his friend. James is so thoroughly himself, somehow, that he's compelling even when he's being utterly daft. 

Of course, he isn't going to say any of that. But if he's going to actually find out what's going on with James, this is probably the moment. 

"James..."

"Mmm?"

"Are you all right?"

James lifts his head sharply at this. "What?"

"Er." Jeremy winces, then bulldozes ahead anyway. "Just... single. How's that working out?" He feels a bit bad for not having asked before, but they really have been busy filming and anyway he'd been sure James wouldn't want to talk about it. What was there even to say? Other than 'It all went to shit,' which was Jeremy's favorite way to describe the end of _his_ most recent relationship.

James snorts. "An attempt at sympathy, is that what this is? If you keep it up, I might begin to wonder if you're secretly a pod person."

Jeremy swallows his irritation at this demonstration of deliberate obtuseness. In a flash of inspiration, he says, "Hammond said he thought you were looking a bit peaky." Yes, if all else fails, blame it on Richard. "Didn't see it myself," he adds, then wants to punch himself in the eye when this, inexplicably, makes James look even more blank-faced. 

"Well you don't need to worry about me," James says. "You can tell Hammond you tried with an easy conscience." If he hadn't been paying attention, Jeremy thinks he might have missed the faint note of bitterness in his voice. 

"James," he starts, but James pushes himself up off the sofa and resolutely begins gathering up plates and bottles. Jeremy shuts his mouth with a click, knowing he's ballsed it up but not how or why. It's a familiar sensation. "You want a hand?"

"Now I _know_ you've been replaced with an alien," James jokes, and waves Jeremy off. "I've got it."

He disappears into the kitchen. Jeremy scrubs a hand down over his face, feeling suddenly weary. They're supposed to be mates but sometimes it seems like there are a million miles between them and nothing he can do to bridge the gap.

Before he can settle too much further into self-pity, there is the sound of small, furry feet padding across the carpet. Jeremy looks down as Fusker comes into view at the end of the sofa. The cat gives him a look of utter loathing, then walks forward and, very pointedly, lifts his leg on Jeremy's foot.

Jeremy scrambles up off the sofa with a shout. James comes running from the kitchen. 

Perhaps predictably, an argument ensues. Ten minutes later James is telling him to fuck off, and ten minutes after that Jeremy is sitting in the back of a cab seething about injustice and a new pair of shoes. 

\-----

"It's that beast," Jeremy says, halting in his pacing to point an accusatory finger in Richard's direction. "It's turned him against me!"

They were in the portakabin again – James was outside, going around the track in something disastrous from a Pacific Rim country. Richard and Jeremy were meant to be thinking of clever things to say about the other cars, but as per usual they were doing nothing of the sort.

"You do realize that you sound completely mental," Richard says, from where he's lounging on the sofa. "I mean, actually, literally mental, as opposed to your usual run-of-the-mill brand of mental."

Jeremy ignores this. "Everything was fine the way it was! We had dinner all the time and, sure, occasionally we got into a bit of a shouting match. But he's never thrown me out before!"

"Have you considered the possibility that he was just putting up with you?" Richard offers flippantly. Jeremy has no idea what his expression looks like at that, but it must be somewhat dreadful because Richard backpedals hurriedly. "Oh, Christ, I'm only joking, Jez. Look, just apologize and it'll all be fine."

"I have nothing to apologize for," Jeremy protests, grasping for something he can be sure of. "It's hardly as if _I_ pissed on something I shouldn't have. I haven't done that since nineteen sixty two!"

"You can't just go around insulting other people's pets and expect them not to take offense."

"All I said was that it would look better as a coat."

Richard raises an eyebrow at him, and Jeremy sighs. "All right, fine, maybe that was the tiniest bit uncalled for." He rubs the back of his neck; it's been tense ever since the argument with James. "I just want things to be how they were," he says, aware that the statement has come out more plaintive than he'd intended. "Everything was fine. It was."

"Sometimes there's a difference between 'fine' and what people actually want," says Richard quietly. Before Jeremy can do more than wonder what the hell that's supposed to mean, though, a bellow of "Clarkson!" from outside tells Jeremy it's his turn to thrash around like an idiot. He closes his eyes, then shakes his head and turns to go without saying anything else. 

He passes James in the doorway. They'd spoken politely enough this morning, but Jeremy abruptly thinks that if James nods distantly at him one more time he might have to hit something very hard with a hammer. He snags James' elbow and pulls him to a stop, then meets his eye squarely. "You know I didn't mean anything by it," he says, and then, for want of something better, "All right?"

James looks at him for a long moment, then sighs. "Of course," he says. "Jez. Of course we're all right." 

Jeremy thumps him on the shoulder, relieved, and goes out. Behind him he can hear Richard say, "James, mate, sometimes you are just—" and then the door slams shut.

\-----

Jeremy drives his terrible box on wheels in circles for a while, blathering about understeer. But something in he back of his mind keeps niggling away at him, and when they pause for five minutes so Iain can change filters on the camera, he makes himself stare at nothing in particular until it comes bubbling up to the top.

There had been something about the way James had said 'Of course.' Why 'Of course'? Why not 'I forgive you this time, you utter pillock'? Why not 'insult my cat again and I'll punch you in the gentleman's area'? Why not something that shows James really _is_ just putting up with him, if that's what he's doing? It had been an easy forgiveness, and the more that Jeremy thinks about it, the more convinced he is that it had been too easy.

Maybe it's that James wants to be 'Friday night beer and a movie' friends but not 'talk to each other about how godawful lonely it is to be single' friends. Maybe it's that he doesn't want to be friends at all, just congenial coworkers, and it's Jeremy who's barged his way into James' life like a bull in a china shop. James certainly wouldn't be the first person to feel that way.

"Oi, Clarkson!"

Jeremy snaps back to reality with a start. He rolls down the window. "What?"

"We've been ready to go again for five minutes," says Dave, with just a hint of irritation. "Do you have an urgent need to lay down and die or something, or can we get on with it?"

Jeremy flaps a hand at him and starts the car.

\-----

He makes himself focus after that, but when they've wrapped for the day and everyone's heading home – James the first to leave, even before Jeremy can say good night – he starts stewing about it all over again. Maybe he should just stay the fuck away, keep it all professional for however many more years of Top Gear they have stretching out in front of them. But if that was what James wanted, why didn't he just say so? He didn't seem to have any problem telling Jeremy to fuck off most of the time. Why pick this thing to be silent about?

On their way out, Richard claps him on the back. "Well done on apologizing for once," he says lightly. "Didn't think you had it in you."

Jeremy snorts. "Thanks," he says. "Pikey." Richard lifts two fingers at him and opens the door of his Porsche. "Don't suppose you want to save everyone some time and just tell me what the fuck I should be doing next?" Jeremy calls after him.

"Nope," Richard calls back, and shuts the door.

\-----

Jeremy decides that the only way he's going to figure out what's going on with James is through intense observation, so he spends the next week watching James out of the corner of his eye. The trouble is, he can hardly find a moment to look when James isn't watching him back. It seems like every time he sneaks a look he discovers James' eyes on him – sometimes patient, sometimes amused, sometimes thoughtful. Once, with that strange, sad expression on his face, the one that Jeremy doesn't understand at all. 

The thing is, they've been more or less proper friends for over a year now, worked together for two, known each other casually for a few years before that. Maybe it shouldn't hurt to think that there are parts of James' life that he knows nothing about. But it does.

\-----

He tries not saying anything about the upcoming Friday dinner at James', just to see what will happen, but by the time their Friday afternoon meeting is coming to an end James hasn't mentioned it at all, or even spent more than two minutes talking to him the whole day, and Jeremy's heart is beginning to sink. As the last of the conversations around him peter out, he gathers up all the dirty mugs from the table, more for something to occupy himself than from any real urge to neatness. When he comes back from the office kitchenette, James is blithering happily on about the cat to Iain – "I thought I'd lost him, you see, and then I opened the fridge and discovered I'd shut him inside. He was even purring, the daft thing!" – and Jeremy finds himself grabbing up his jacket and walking so rapidly out of the room that he nearly ends up braining himself on the door jamb.

In the hallway, Richard is saying something into his phone, though he pulls it away from his mouth as Jeremy goes past. "Night, Jez," he says, and then, "Jez? Hey, Jeremy, you big oaf, I'm—" Jeremy shoves the door open and doesn't look back.

He drives back to his flat blasting the radio as loud as he can stand it. When he pulls into the garage and turns off the ignition, the sudden silence is deafening. The silence in his flat is even worse, and he turns on the television quickly just to have something fill his ears that isn't an endless reminder of James saying nothing.

The thing is, it's absolutely ridiculous that he's this worked up about it, as if he's got some sort of claim to James' time and attention. But knowing that he's being ridiculous has never stopped Jeremy from anything in the past, and it isn't stopping him now, either.

He watches the second half of an episode of something that's clearly supposed to be comedy, though most of it makes no sense at all, and then switches over to a history program about Antarctic exploration that keeps his interest for another hour. After that, twenty minutes into a documentary about whaling, his phone beeps.

He almost leaves it where it is, out of reach on the far end of the coffee table. But in the end he thinks it might be something important, so he leans over and picks it up.

It's a text from James. 'Well, are you coming or not? Dinner's getting cold, you know.'

Jeremy scrubs a hand over his face. Then he texts back, 'Yes, be there shortly,' and goes to put on his shoes.

\-----

'Shortly' ends up being more than a half hour, given the traffic.

"Did you come via Japan?" James says, when he opens the door.

"Yes," Jeremy says immediately. "That's exactly what I did. Thought it would be a lovely change of pace."

James rolls his eyes but steps back to let Jeremy come in. Jeremy notices Fusker crouched at the far end of the hallway and pointedly ignores him as he shucks off his coat. James takes it and hangs it in the closet. "He's not going to piss on you again," he says, voice muffled a little by the closet door. "Probably." He shuts the door, then gets a look at Jeremy's expression and makes a face. "All right, perhaps it's best if we don't talk about that."

"For god's sake, James," Jeremy says. He's been clinging to his temper the whole drive over, planning to just pretend everything's fine, but if James isn't going to bother then he isn't either. "Is this you telling me to fuck off out of your life? Because if it is, I think it would be a lot simpler if you would just tell me to fuck off."

"I'm—" James says. "What? Jez—"

"Are we even friends?" Jeremy says frankly. "I thought we were, but I've thought that about a lot of people who turned out to think I was an irredeemable shit. And Hammond seems to think that you're just putting up with me, and if that's the case—"

"If Hammond thinks it's a good idea to go around blathering about my business," James says tightly, "then he sure as fuck oughtn't get it all wrong."

_All wrong? What d'you mean, 'all wrong?'_ Jeremy thinks, but then it clicks. All those looks, the ones he'd thought were weary or disgusted – they hadn't been anything of the sort. They hadn't even been bored. "Oh," he says. A warning hiss has begun to emanate from somewhere near his ankles, but he barely notices. " _Oh_." How the hell had he not seen this? "James—" 

James' expression shutters. His chin goes up. Jeremy opens his mouth and then shuts it again. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing, doesn't want to put that horrible look back on James' face. If only he could just kiss him until he smiles again.

Why can't he just kiss him?

He wants to. The revelation slams into him like a Ferrari Scaglietti at a hundred and seventy five miles per hour. He wants to kiss James, wants to put his mouth on James' mouth, wants to slide their tongues together. He wants to get his hands in James' hair and tilt his head back, wants to kiss the line of his neck and the hollow of his throat. Wants to never ever let him go.

"James—"

A flicker of a glance tells him that both man and cat are regarding him with the same wariness. "What?" James says.

"I want to kiss you." It's a hell of a lot easier to say it than he'd thought it might be. If only it hadn't come out so wonderingly, it might have been suave. 

James' jaw drops. "That's... not what I expected you to say. Jezza..."

There is no one to stop them. No wives, no girlfriends. No journalists, no cameras. He could say, "Kiss me." He could just lean forward and do it, easy as breathing.

And so he does. James' mouth is warm, his lips parted in surprise. For a moment it is only skin pressed against skin.

Then James' hands are cupping his face and they are kissing properly, sweetly, urgently. Jeremy shivers as James' thumb rubs against the skin below his left ear. Every place they touch feels superheated. It is not just the touch of skin on skin, not _just_ anything. Stubble against his cheek is a shuddering rasp, and somehow his hands are on James' waist, rucking up his shirt to skim his palms over the skin beneath. They kiss and kiss again, until his lips buzz with it. James is so close, the broad stretch of his chest against Jeremy's, and yet it's not close enough. Jeremy can feel how carefully James is holding himself, as if even now he's still afraid Jeremy is going to turn away and mock him.

_Bollocks to that._ He slides one hand down over James' arse and hauls him in, pushes their bodies together until there can be no doubt of his interest. He keeps his eyes locked on James' face, trying to say it all just by the heat of his gaze.

"Jeremy," James says, a heated breath. Another hesitation, a split second, but then his hands are in Jeremy's hair, and he says, all in a rush, "Come to bed with me."

"God, yes."

″And stay,″ James says doggedly. ″If this is just a one-off, Jez, then forget it, will you? I can't—″

″You idiot,″ Jeremy says, pressing a kiss to the corner of James' mouth. From here he can trail his mouth down James' neck, kiss his Adam's apple and the hollow of his collar bone. James smells good, slightly acidic, and Jeremy wants nothing more than to bite down, to taste him. ″Of course I'm staying. You know what I'm like when I get onto a good thing.″

James huffs out a laugh. ″What Clarkson wants, Clarkson gets.″

″Exactly,″ Jeremy says. He lifts his head to pin James with another look. ″And I want you.″

″Jez—″ James melts against him, and Jeremy takes the opportunity to kiss him again, deep and lush. James' hands are still curled at Jeremy's neck, and they cling even tighter when Jeremy sucks on James' tongue. 

Jeremy rocks their hips together, feeling James' arousal pressing against his own. ″And now I want you naked,″ he says, murmuring the words against James' lips. 

James shivers. ″Come to bed, then,″ he says, pulling away. There's just a hint of a tease in his voice, enough to tell Jeremy he's won the battle to convince James of his sincerity, at least for now. James tugs him down the hall; Jeremy is struck by the warmth of James' hand in his, the way they fit together so perfectly. The instant he'd kissed James he'd known it would be good between them, but this – this is better than good. This is coming home.

They stumble into the bedroom, kissing again already. Jeremy slides his hands up under James' shirt and tugs it upwards and off over his head, sending James' hair into a staticky halo around his face. James goes to straighten it, self-conscious, and Jeremy laughs. He's so bloody happy. 

He reaches for the buckle of James' belt, slips the leather through it and unfastens the button of his fly. It's only then that, over James' shoulder, he catches sight of two glowing eyes, regarding them from the dark of the doorway. 

"James..." he murmurs.

"Mmm?"

"For the love of god, put that cat out."

\-----

Epilogue: 

When Jeremy wakes in the morning, he is warm. 

There is a faint whistling noise underneath his ear, and he recognizes it, after a moment, as the sound of James' snoring. Which explains the arm slung across his chest as well, and the hair fluttering against the side of his neck.

Something heavy is resting on his knees. Jeremy slits open his eyes and discovers that it is Fusker, standing with feet together and face turned inquiringly towards the head of the bed. They stare at each other for a long moment. "I'll do my best not to fuck it up," Jeremy says quietly. ″I really will, I swear.″ He feels a bit ridiculous, talking to a cat, but then again this isn't just any cat. It's James' cat.

Fusker twitches an ear, as if to convey pointedly that he isn't listening. Jeremy smiles ruefully. What kind of reaction did he think he was going to get? But something miraculous happens. Fusker sinks down into a sort of loaf shape on Jeremy's knees, settling in as if he means to keep Jeremy there. And then he starts to purr, a vibration that Jeremy feels in his legs more than actually hears. Jeremy lets out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. 

"Mmm?" says James from beside him, sleep-loosened and soft.

Jeremy curls a hand onto James' arm beneath the covers. "Shh," he says, and closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.


End file.
